Chapter 7 #2
“It’s fine and yes, I’m sure. But thank you.” I squeeze Calla’s hand once and then let go, stepping back into the circle of Rafael’s arm like it's the most natural thing in the world. “I'll call you later, okay? We’ll get brunch or something.”
The lie tastes like ash on my tongue, but it's easier than the truth.
I watch them walk away, their sequined dresses catching the light as they disappear through the lobby doors, and something inside me loosens and tightens at the same time.
Rafael's thumb traces small circles against my hip through the silk of my dress, and I don't know if the gesture is meant to comfort or claim.
The elevator carries us upward in silence, floor after floor passing by as the numbers climb toward the sky.
When the doors finally open, I step into a penthouse that looks like it was designed for a king—soaring ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows that showcase Chicago's skyline in all its glittering glory, modern furniture in shades of charcoal and cream, and artwork on the walls that probably costs more than most people make in a lifetime.
It's beautiful and cold and utterly impersonal, like a spread in an architectural magazine rather than a place where someone actually lives.
“I gave everyone the day off,” Rafael says, shrugging out of his jacket and draping it over the back of a leather chair with casual elegance. “I wanted it to be just us for your first day here.”
The words should feel romantic, but all I can think about is the fact that I'm alone with a man who crashed my wedding with guns blazing and claimed me as his prize.
A man whose name makes powerful people flinch, whose empire stretches across Chicago like a spider's web, whose interest in me is still undefined and therefore terrifying.
“How many days will I be staying here with you? We still need to go over all the details.”
Ignoring my question he asks, “Are you hungry?”
He moves toward what I assume is the kitchen, his movements fluid and unhurried. “I can have something brought up, or—”
Hmm. I try a different approach and cut in. “What will my wish cost, Rafael?” Just because I offered one thing doesn’t mean he wants that, I just realize.
The question stops him mid-stride, and he turns to face me with an expression I can't read. The late afternoon light streaming through the windows catches the silver at his temples and the darkness in his eyes, and I'm struck again by how devastatingly handsome he is.
His masculine beauty is mesmerizing and I’m sure he’s destroyed the hearts and hopes of countless women who thought they could tame him. I can’t be the only wish he’s granted nor the woman he’s brought here.
He moves to a bar cart near the window and reaches for a crystal decanter, pouring two fingers of amber liquid into a heavy-bottomed glass. “Would you like one?”
“No.” I watch him take a slow sip of what I assume is bourbon, the muscles in his throat working as he swallows. “I want to know what I owe you.”
Rafael sets the glass down and crosses the distance between us with the predatory grace I'm beginning to recognize as uniquely his.
He stops close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes, close enough that his scent wraps around me like a physical embrace—cedar and smoke and something darker that makes my pulse quicken despite my best efforts to remain unmoved.
“I missed you.” His voice is low, intimate, completely at odds with the conversation I'm trying to have. “This past week, while I was making arrangements, I couldn't stop thinking about the woman who tore apart her own dress to write wishes on silk.”
Arrangements to crash my miserable wedding and steal me away, he means.
The confession catches me off guard, and I find myself momentarily speechless. “You knew who I was and you allowed me to lie to you.” I watch every inch of his face for a tell but he keeps it neutral. "Why? Why didn’t you say something?”
He lifts a heavy shoulder and brings his drink to his lips before answering. “I wanted you to feel safe. Your lie was for you to feel comfortable, not for me to expose you when you didn’t want to be.”
He reaches up and traces a finger along the curve of my jaw, and my skin heats in the wake of his touch like kindling catching fire.
“I knew who you were the moment you walked into my club, Persia Fiore. The Governor's daughter with tears on her face and desperation in her eyes. You’ll quickly learn no detail gets past me.”
I wave off his casual tone and don’t allow it to sway me from my line of questioning. It’s way too easy to fall into a relaxed state when a man like him uses such a calm, husky tone.
“So our encounter was planned?” The thought should make me angry, but all I feel is a strange kind of relief that at least one of us knew what they were doing that night.
“Not even a little.”
“Oh.”
His smile is almost rueful. "I didn't tell you to come to Scarlet Thorn. I didn’t plant the idea for your friends to tell you about the Red Letter Syndicate in their heads. I was sitting in my office, ready to call it a night, when you appeared on my security feed. You looked like a sweet, confused little dove who needed help.”
"My friends were helping me—"
"Your friends wanted to be seen with the Governor's daughter and to show off to their boyfriends. They abandoned you as soon as you served your purpose otherwise they would have come looking for you. Better yet, they would have never let you walk off on your own.”
I cross my arms over my chest. There's that edge again, that cold anger that surfaces whenever Calla and Kiara are mentioned.
“They left you alone in a building full of men who would have paid fortunes for a single hour with you. Do you have any idea what could have happened?”
I press my lips together and jut my chin high. “I’m a big girl,” I snap, bristling at his tone despite the warmth spreading through my chest at his protectiveness. “I didn’t need a babysitter.”
His smile turns wolfish, and something in my stomach flips over. He considers me over the rim of his glass as he takes another swallow before answering.
Damn him for making that look sexy.
I hold my irritation close to my chest so I don’t lose my focus.
“Is that so? Because the first time you set foot in a sex club, you managed to find the most dangerous man in Chicago and beg him to save you. Tell me, little dove, what exactly were you doing there in the first place? And don’t lie to me. I’ll know.”
The question brings back the memory of that night in vivid detail—the beautiful people draped in body oils and glitter, the moans echoing from semi-covered booths I didn't dare peek into, the overwhelming sense that I had stumbled into a world where everyone knew the rules except me.
I didn't belong there, surrounded by all that luxury and sin, and yet something about it had called to me in a way I still don't understand.
He moves to stand in front of me and I don’t dare inhale too deeply or I might fall under his spell and forget I need this man to see me as more than a pawn in his game against my father.
“I was desperate,” I admit, because there's no point in lying now. "I would have gone anywhere, done anything, to escape what my father had planned for me. The night I came to your club was the night I learned of my fate with Magnus.”
Sharing that little tidbit of betrayal is as embarrassing as it is cathartic.
Rafael’s expression softens almost imperceptibly, and he brushes a strand of violet hair away from my face with a gentleness that makes my heart stutter. It’s why I don’t expect his next question.
“Is it true? Are you a virgin, little dove?”
The question should offend me. It should make me slap him across his handsome face and demand to know what business it is of his. Instead, I feel heat flood my cheeks as I nod once, unable to force the word past my lips.
"Why do you call me that?" I ask, desperate to change the subject. "Little dove?"
He doesn't answer, just looks at me with an expression that holds equal parts adoration and desire, and I realize that some questions aren't meant to be answered with words.
He pampers me for the next hour, feeding me strawberries dipped in dark chocolate and pouring me small glasses of bourbon that burn pleasantly on the way down.
He never tells me the cost of my wish, deflecting every question with another strawberry, another sip of liquor, another brush of his fingers against my skin that leaves me breathless and wanting.
When his phone rings, he excuses himself to take the call, and I finally have a moment to explore my gilded cage.
The penthouse is massive, room after room of expensive furniture and priceless art, but there's something missing that I can't quite identify until I realize what it is—there are no photographs.
No family portraits, no snapshots of friends, no evidence that Rafael Milano has ever loved or been loved by anyone.
It's the home of a man who exists in isolation, surrounded by beautiful things that can't hurt him.
I wander toward his office, drawn by the sound of his voice through the partially open door. I go to move away, but he’s by the door and pulling me in before I can retreat. He moves across the office and settles into a large chair behind an even larger desk.
He tugs me toward him, pulling me to stand between his spread thighs while he continues his conversation.
His free hand settles on my hip, anchoring me in place, and I don't know what to think of this man who holds me like something precious while discussing business with the same cold efficiency he showed at the church.
His shoulders are relaxed in a way I haven't seen before, and I realize that whoever is on the other end of the line has earned his trust. That is a rare commodity in his world.
His eyes drift over my body as he speaks, caressing the swell of my breasts and the curve of my hips with a hunger that makes heat pool low in my belly.
He ends the call and stands in one fluid motion, lifting me easily and settling me on the edge of his desk. The wood is cool against the backs of my thighs, and I grip the edge to steady myself as he steps between my legs.
The last of the sunlight spills through the large wall of windows at my back. The curtains are thrown open and the large expanse of glass reveals the city below us.
“I was wrong,” he murmurs, reaching for the clasp of the bolero and releasing it. My breasts sway slightly and he gives an appreciative growl.
I tense. I never once thought of having to explain the scars on my back.
Instead of removing the bolero, he reaches around and loosens the zipper holding the bodice of my dress in place with agonizing slowness.
Little by little the pressure holding my ample breasts in place releases and proof of my growing arousal becomes apparent when he reveals the hard tips of my nipples.
His eyes roam over the dusty pink tips.
“About what?” I turn my gaze to his. In the low light of the office I watch his pupils dilate, and the deep gray of his eyes shift to reveal hints of silver. He’s absolutely stunning to look at, but looks don’t make for a happily ever after. This is business and I will do good to remember that.
The silk pools at my waist, leaving me bare from the shoulders down except for the bolero spread over my shoulders. Rafael's gaze tracks over my exposed skin like a physical touch.
“Stunning,” he murmurs in a throaty husk.
“That night at the Scarlet Thorn, I thought you were the most beautiful creature I had ever seen.” He traces the line of my collarbone with one finger, following the path down to the swell of my breast. “I was wrong.
You're even more exquisite in the sunlight.”
A knock at the door shatters the moment, and I scramble to pull my bodice back in place as a massive man with ice-colored eyes and a Russian accent appears in the doorway.
“Konstantin.” Rafael’s voice carries a warning that the other man either doesn't hear or chooses to ignore.
“We have a problem.” The Russian's gaze flicks to me briefly before returning to Rafael. “Magnus is already making moves. You need to see this.”
Rafael’s jaw tightens, and I can see the war playing out behind his eyes—desire versus duty, want versus need. Duty wins, as I suspect it always does with men like him.
“I have to go.” He cups my face in his hands and presses a kiss to my forehead that feels more like a promise of more to come than a firm goodbye.
“You will sleep in my room tonight. End of the hall, last door on the right.
You'll find everything you need in the closet.” His thumb traces my lower lip, and his voice drops to something low and dangerous.
"When I return, we will talk about the terms of your wish. Sleep well, my little dove.”
And then he's gone, leaving me sitting on his desk in a ruined wedding dress, surrounded by the empty luxury of his penthouse, wondering what kind of bargain I've made with the devil himself.